


negative connection

by inkwellhell (georgewashingmachine)



Category: DCU (Comics), Doom Patrol
Genre: Angst, Consensual Violence, Consent, Fluff and Angst, Im sorry if I butchered these characters I just love them a lot, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Minor Violence, Non-Graphic Violence, Oneshot, Romantic Fluff kinda, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Swearing, Vomiting, based off of gerard way's doom patrol, cliff punches larry bc larry needs the negativity, don't worry larry just punches himself in the face its not that bad, its the black goo shit, love my superhero gays, that bathroom scene from gerard ways comics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-06
Updated: 2018-02-06
Packaged: 2019-03-14 16:22:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,056
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13593870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/georgewashingmachine/pseuds/inkwellhell
Summary: Thriving off of negativity is hard.





	negative connection

**Author's Note:**

> as i said in the tags
> 
> 1\. i love my superhero gays
> 
> 2\. this is based off of gerard way's doom patrol
> 
> 3\. im sorry if i fucking butchered larry and cliff i just love them a lot so i just wanted to write ab them

The tiled floor of the bathroom felt frighteningly cold beneath Larry’s feet. Actually, everything felt cold. Everything felt like nothing. Nothing felt like everything.

It was becoming harder and harder to explain what he was feeling.

So, he gave up trying. He’d given up a long time ago. Given up caring about other people, because he wasn’t quite human and he never would be and in a way, this nothingness felt more comforting than the stares he would get when he saw things other people— _normal_ people—couldn’t. They acted like he was some sort of monster to them, so he acted like nobody cared about him, because nobody did. They never seemed concerned when he would stare into space at pure nothingness, pure void, when he would replay his memories over and over, trying to remember that they had actually happened and that he hadn’t felt like nothing was real and nothing even mattered his whole life, when he would scream at the top of his lungs “ _Where is Larry Trainor?!”_ because he wasn’t quite sure where his old self had gone.

But then he saw _Cliff_ , the real Cliff, and suddenly things felt a little less hopeless and depressing and miserable.

Reality snapped back to him, and the feeling of Casey Brinke’s bathroom floor came flooding back.

He felt tired. He felt dizzy. He felt crazy. He felt a lot of things he’d hadn’t felt in a while, because most of the time he just felt numb. No, not even numb. Just nothing. It was those kinds of feelings that you’d splash your face with cold water to get rid of. He’d normally not even bother, but now he decided to try anyway, if only for the sake of Cliff.

He stood up, dizziness engulfing him so suddenly as he did that he stumbled and caught himself on the sink. He lingered there for a few moments, gripping the cold ceramic sink harder than he should, feeling Cliff’s gaze burn into the back of his neck. He could _feel_ the question hanging in the air: _Are you okay?_ It was never spoken, but it was there. He didn’t quite know how to answer it.

He straightens up and is met abruptly with his own face staring back at him, watching him, like it wasn’t quite himself but more of a spectator, an outsider. He turns his gaze down to the sink, breaking eye contact with the _thing_ in the mirror. He slowly turns the faucet on, hands dropping to meet the flow of water. It’s cold. Of course, it’s cold. He cups his hands together, the tap water pooling between his hands, and splashes the water onto his face. His face is cold. And wet. He looks up at the mirror. His eyes meet Cliff’s, who was standing behind him and watching him silently. He feels the question in the air again, thicker this time. He turns away from the mirror.

He’s faced with Cliff, and he doesn’t have it in him to meet the other’s eyes so he just stares at his chest. Neither of them says anything until Trainor hacks up that black goo shit again, and he has to hold onto Cliff for support.

“Fuck. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s not your fault.” 

Trainor doesn’t answer, as he’s too busy trying to choke down the sludge. His attempts prove futile, and he vomits blackness onto Casey Brinke’s bathroom floor again.

He’s holding onto Cliff a little too tightly, knuckles white from the strain, until he gets an idea and steps away. Cliff looks at him questioningly. Larry still doesn’t meet his eyes.

“Punch me in the face.”

Cliff is so taken aback by the order that it takes a minute to process. “No,”

“Punch me in the face,” Larry repeats, finally looking into Cliff’s eyes. Heat floods his face like he expected, but the butterflies are so unexpected and feel so vivid it feels like he can actually choke it up out of his stomach.

“I’m not going to hurt you, especially not when you’re in a state like this—”

“Punch me in the face or I’ll do it myself.”

Cliff sighs. “You’re fucking impossible.”

“Thanks. I try.”

“I…” Cliff falters, looking the man before him up and down. “Don’t hurt yourself, Trainor.”

Larry stares back for a moment before driving his fist into the side of his own face. Repeatedly.

“Oh, _fuck_ …”

“Jesus Christ, what did I just say…?!”

Cliff has to hold Larry’s hands down so he doesn’t hurt himself anymore. The question is still lingering. It seems like a good enough of a time to address it.

“Are you okay?”

He scoffs. “The fuck do you think? I just beat the shit out of _myself_. That’s new fuckin’ levels of pathetic.”

Cliff sighs again. Trainor was stupidly intolerable sometimes.

“If I punch you will you stop?”

The desperate _yes_ that follows from Trainor’s lips is unbearably sad.

There’s a moment of silence, of preparation. Cliff with hesitation and Larry with anticipation.

“Ready?” Cliff asks and Trainor has to stifle a laugh because he honestly loves how Cliff has to ask for consent to punch him in the face, loves how much he cares.

“Yeah.”

The pain that follows is short, and yet it remains, and it’s numbing, yet it makes him feel alive, and it’s over all too quickly.

“Do it again.”

And so, Cliff winces and punches him again. And again, and again, and again. It’s painful to watch. He stops after the fifth. Or maybe it’s the seventh. He isn’t really sure and he doesn’t really care—what’s important is that he stopped.

“Why’d you stop?” Trainor asks, breathless, like his life source had been ripped away. And it had.

Cliff doesn’t answer at first.

 _“Why’d you stop?”_ The blond repeats, eyes wide, hands gripping Cliff’s hard, his knuckles turning white again.

“I—goddamnit, Trainor, I don’t want to hurt you.”

There’s more silence. Larry’s the one to break it.

“Thank you.” He’s still breathless, but he’s smiling this time. “Thank you!” And he envelops Cliff in a hug. And maybe pressed a kiss to Cliff’s chest. Cliff didn’t seem to mind – Trainor was happy, and that’s all that mattered. Let the guy do what he wanted.

“You're welcome. But don’t hurt yourself anymore.”

“I’ll try.”


End file.
